by Beck, Jamie
“Compared with our trip to the city, you haven’t clutched your stomach or clenched your jaw. Blocking your vision also let you focus on the guided meditation CD, didn’t it?”
She’d take him to task for his self-congratulatory tone, but, truthfully, his tactics had kept her from overthinking, until now. “Can you at least tell me where we’re headed?”
“And spoil the surprise?”
It would disappoint him, but she’d reached the limit of her ability to surrender all control. “Well . . . yes.”
“But I want to see your reaction when we get there.” His displeasure rang out. “Just a little longer . . .”
She sighed. “I feel stupid. Imagine what other people who see me are thinking.”
“That you’re being kidnapped by someone with great taste in blindfolds?”
She’d laugh if the reason she was wearing the blindfold weren’t so pathetic.
“Claire, who cares what other people think? We’re having our own adventure.” He must have glanced over and seen her wrinkle her nose. “How about this? If you can guess where we’re headed, you can take off the mask.”
“Ooh, a game. I like that.” A lifetime of puzzle games with her parents had honed her skills. “Twenty questions?”
“That’s too many. Five yes-no questions.”
She scrunched her face and thought. “Did we head west?”
“No.”
“North?”
“No.”
South would’ve taken them straight into the Sound, so they must’ve gone east. She wouldn’t waste a question to confirm that. East of Sanctuary Sound for ninety minutes might take them into Rhode Island, or possibly the northeastern corner of Connecticut. “Rhode Island?”
“Yes.” His tone had shifted from pleased to petulant.
She had two questions remaining. Rhode Island had pretty beaches and Block Island, but late March wasn’t the best month to visit either of those options. Block Island was definitely out because they hadn’t gotten on a ferry. What would Logan find interesting about Rhode Island? “Are we going to the RISD Museum?”
“No. This trip isn’t about me. I planned it with you in mind.” He squeezed her hand to emphasize his point. “Shoot, that was more than a yes-no answer.”
“Thank you, though, for planning something just for me.” She shouldn’t hold hands for so long when she’d already told him that she didn’t see any point in them being more than friends. Still, she didn’t let go.
Back to the puzzle. What tourist attractions in Rhode Island appealed to her? She thought for a moment before it hit her. “The mansions?”
“Okay, smarty-pants.” He withdrew his hand, so she lost even though she’d won the game. “Take off the mask.”
“I’m sorry, Logan.” As soon as she removed the mask, she gasped, regretting her decision. From the peak of the Newport Bridge, sunlight spilled across Narragansett Bay in every direction. Cold fear dampened any thrill of the view from two hundred feet above sea level. The thick feeling in her throat made it hard to swallow.
“What do you think?” He turned to study her. As much as she enjoyed staring at Logan’s face, she wished he’d keep his eyes on the road.
“We’re up so high.” Her breathy voice exposed her rising panic.
“We’ll be down in no time. Take a breath.” He kept his grip on the steering wheel no matter how hard she wished he’d reach for her hand again. “I thought you’d enjoy The Breakers from a design standpoint. I assume you’ve never been.”
She drew a steadying breath and focused on the conversation instead of the shark-infested water below. “You’re right. I’ve only ever seen photographs.”
“Well, as much as I love a good picture, it’s never the same as experiencing something firsthand.” He winked.
An unexpected admission given his profession. She didn’t want to concede the point, because, for so long, she’d convinced herself that books and images were more than enough.
But the moment they passed through the entrance gate to the seventy-room Vanderbilt mansion, she knew she’d lost any argument she might’ve raised. The home’s one-acre footprint provided for four floors of living space inside the limestone castle.
Opulence befitting its Gilded Age construction greeted them the instant they stepped into the great entrance hall, which had six wide doorways leading to other parts of the house. Her gaze bounced from the central marble staircase, carpeted in red, to the ornately carved, gilt-coated ceilings, to the wrought iron railings and figurines and gazillion other details she strained to take in.
Logan was attaching a big lens to his camera. She supposed he might shoot some interesting close-ups of the detail on the high ceilings and other hard-to-see places.
“And you think Arcadia House is fussy,” she joked, remembering his endless teen complaints about its touch-me-not decor. To her, the Prescott home had been romantic and nostalgic—a dreamy mansion by the sea. To him, it had seemed like a museum, not a home. Just another point of contention between him and his parents, she supposed.
“Yes. Please don’t consider this a hint or use this trip to gain insight into my tastes. I only thought you’d find the architecture and design interesting.”
“It is. It really is, Logan.” She didn’t feel threatened in this public space, possibly because someplace so unreal couldn’t possibly be dangerous. Or maybe because there weren’t many visitors at the moment. “Thank you.”
For a while, her gaze remained fixed upward at the art and carvings and ceiling coffers. Between all that and the barrage of statistics dizzying her mind—more than seven hundred fifty doorknobs, twenty bathrooms, forty servants, and more—she practically floated through the palatial home. It was as if she’d stepped into the pages of one of her beloved historical romance novels.
The library’s walnut paneling, impressed with gold leaf, made the walls look like a leather-bound book, to say nothing of the room’s massive five-hundred-year-old stone fireplace, which had been taken from a sixteenth-century French chateau.
The billiards room, done in the style of ancient Rome, appeared to be carved out of Italian marble. Rose alabaster arches provided pops of color and a frame for the ceiling mural. Assorted semiprecious stones formed mosaics of acorns—the Vanderbilt family emblem. Renaissance-style mahogany furniture lent depth and richness to the room.
Claire had no idea how much time had passed when it finally occurred to her that she’d been so entranced by the self-guided tour, she’d scarcely spoken to Logan. She paused the recording and took off her headset. “You must be bored out of your mind.”
“Moi?” He lowered his camera, wearing a playful grin. “I’ve always been curious about what it’d look like if King Midas threw up everywhere.”
She laughed. “So you have been bored.”
“No.” His expression warmed, surprising her with a quick snap of his camera aimed at her. “Watching you respond to it all has been fascinating. Truthfully, I’m rather pleased with my abduction plan.”
“Abduction?” She elbowed him gently. “Now who’s making your motives sound suspect?”
He leaned close to her ear and said in a low, rich voice, “Well, maybe they are.”
A delicious tingle blossomed in her stomach and traveled a little south, but she forced herself to walk without stumbling.
They entered Mrs. Vanderbilt’s oval bedroom through one of its multiple doors. “I always find it amusing that spouses kept separate bedrooms. I suppose it could be a good thing if your husband snored or drank too much.”
“I’d never put my wife in another bedroom. What’s the point of missing the primary benefit of marriage?”
Claire felt herself blush. “I think the primary benefit is companionship, not sex.”
“Clearly, you’ve not yet had the right partner.” His hot gaze stirred something in her, even as she gaped at his impudence. The memory of the kiss rushed back, putting questions in her mind.
Rather than
give him the satisfaction of admitting he might be right, she gestured to the bookshelves. “This room must’ve also served as her study. I wonder what all those discreet passageways are for?”
“Probably for ferrying in lovers after her husband banished her to this room.” He chuckled, his rich laughter flowing through her like hot caramel. If he kept this up, he’d melt all her ice.
“Har har.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m guessing they were for servants to come and go with laundry and such.”
“Come now, Claire,” he clucked. “Don’t spoil my colorful scenarios with harsh reality.”
She liked Logan this way—relaxed, teasing, away from their friends. If they lived someplace far from Peyton and the local gossips, maybe she could let go of her misgivings.
“You’d have made a perfect rake back in the nineteenth century.” She envisioned him as a debonair earl, seducing women who volunteered as subjects for his experiments with the first photographs.
“I don’t know. All those layers of clothing would’ve been bothersome. My father will be the first to tell you I’m neither that ambitious nor persistent.”
Her heart stuttered at the abrupt shift and then ached because his father’s criticisms were always just beneath the surface of his thoughts. “Logan.”
He held up his hand. “Sorry. Ignore me. I think this place is giving me the willies because my dad would sell his soul to be able to leave something like this behind.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“Never. It’s wasteful and self-indulgent. I can be both—which can be fun for a while—but never to this degree. When I do leave something behind, it will leave the world better off.”
She smiled, glancing at the camera in his hand. “I’m sure it will.”
“Are you?” He removed the long lens and returned it and the camera to the small case slung over his shoulder.
“Of course. You’re talented and passionate. If making a difference is your goal, then you’ll succeed.”
He grabbed her waist and tugged her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you, Claire.”
Surprise allowed her to submit to his embrace. “You’re welcome.”
Surrounded by his scent and heat, she worried that she liked being in his arms too much. Her mind raced to piece together what caused him to hold her like she was precious. Could he be that starved for a single word of encouragement?
She closed her eyes to extend the moment in which it didn’t seem impossible that he might, after all these years, desire her. A moment in which she could believe her gentle reassurances formed a foundation for lasting love. In which she could commit to memory exactly how it felt to be surrounded by Logan, how he smelled, how his heartbeat pounded in his chest.
So tempting.
Let go before it hurts too much.
With heavy limbs, she forced herself to ease away and face reality. “We should probably get back soon. I’m meeting Steffi and Ryan for dinner.”
His jaw ticked. “I actually made reservations for us at Cara, overlooking the water.”
That sounded particularly romantic. Thank God for her prior plans, or she’d be hurtling toward certain heartache. “Oh, I’m sorry, Logan, but I can’t bail at the last minute.”
“I’m sure Ryan and Steffi would love a night on their own.”
“But Ben is going, too. If I’m a no-show, he’ll end up a third wheel.” She watched one of Logan’s brows pop up.
He whipped his phone from his pocket. “Wait here.”
He wandered a short distance away. She thought she heard him say Ryan’s name. He stood with one arm crossed over his chest and a conspiratorial smile on his face. A nod and chuckle, and did she hear the words “good luck” at the end?
Logan returned his phone to his pocket and strolled back to where he’d left her. “Ben’s under the weather, so he canceled, which means I’m saving you from being the third wheel.”
“You’re very bossy.” She scowled, even as her kamikaze heart leaped at no longer having a good excuse to refuse his invitation.
“But you’ll forgive me because we’re painting outside the lines today, and I’m treating you to a lovely meal by the sea.”
Painting outside the lines. Ha! Her pulse fluttered while she groped for another reason to bail. Prolonging this outing was a bad idea on so many levels, not the least of which was that it meant they’d be driving home on the highway in the dark. “You promised we could turn around and go whenever I wanted.”
“I did.” He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her, holding very still. “Is that really what you want, Claire?”
If Logan had less self-confidence, he’d be quite humiliated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d planned an outing specifically for any woman, let alone one who couldn’t wait to get away from him.
“You’re making me nervous.” She bit her lip.
“I could say the same to you. I’ve never had so much trouble convincing someone to join me for dinner.”
She looked at her feet. “I should text Steffi.”
“Ryan will fill her in. Besides, I’m sure she’d rather you be on an adventure with me than at dinner with her and Ryan.”
“The adventure part, probably.” She tipped her head to one side. “The you part . . . I doubt.”
He grasped his hips. “Steffi loves me.”
“True. But . . . well, I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea about what?”
“Us.” Claire’s hands turned upward as if the answer were so obvious it needn’t have been stated.
“‘Wrong.’ ‘Nervous.’ All these negative words.” He affected a pout, tilting toward her. “Let’s stay focused on the positive—the possibilities.”
“I’m already way outside my comfort zone. I know you mean well, but I also think this is a bit of a game for you. You’ve turned me into some temporary project.”
“That’s not true.” Maybe it had started that way, but now it was more. Regardless, he admired her for calling him out. Her refreshing authenticity moved him. He didn’t need to pretend anything around Claire, which relaxed him in ways he hadn’t even known he’d needed. “I wish you’d believe that I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“So do I, Logan.” She’d said it so softly he almost missed it. Then she turned and started toward the next stop on the tour, headset back in place, leaving him uncertain about whether he should cancel the dinner reservation.
It seemed that the tour no longer held her rapt attention, which meant she was mulling over the pros and cons of his invitation. He trailed behind her, giving her space, trusting that she’d come around if he was patient.
She and Rosie strolled ahead, down the hallway. Given his history, he couldn’t blame Claire for her suspicions, he supposed. Even he couldn’t quite explain his recent obsession with her.
There was nothing particularly sexy about her Stewart-plaid dress, ivory tights, or oversize ivory cable-knit sweater. The ankle boots and chunky silver necklace gave the ensemble the slightest edge, but nary a hint of cleavage or skin. Yet he found himself curious about what she’d hidden beneath all those layers. Would she be as open and honest in bed as she was out of it? How refreshing might it be to wake up beside a woman he actually enjoyed talking to and with whom he could just be himself?
He’d gotten lost in his musings, so he nearly ran her over when she suddenly stopped and turned on him. “I’ll stay for dinner.”
“Excellent.” He held his arm out for her. She looked at it and smiled before clasping his forearm.
They finished the tour without talking much, but he noticed that she’d started limping. “Does your hip hurt?”
She shrugged. “Sorry if I’m slowing you down.”
“You’re doing great.” A blast of cold air greeted them when he pushed open the door. “In fact, I think you’ve earned yourself a bottle of good wine, or perhaps you prefer champagne?”
She shook h
er head as they crossed to the car. “If I drink a bottle of anything, I’ll fall asleep at the table.”
“I’ve had worse dates,” he teased, opening the car door for her.
“I doubt that.” She slid onto the seat with an audible sigh. He closed the door and walked around the car.
“I’ve never had any woman fall asleep on me, but there have been some who put me to sleep.”
She batted his arm. “That’s not nice.”
“Neither were those women,” he teased, starting to drive the mile or so to the restaurant.
“Then why did you ask them out?” Her brows pulled together.
Such a naive question. Or perhaps a straight shooter like Claire wouldn’t go out with someone based on sex appeal alone. In any case, best he treated it like a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.
After a moment passed in silence, she said, “I have to ask you something, and I’d like you to be honest.”
“Okay.”
“Throughout the years, I’ve seen pictures of you with party girls. Ones who will literally paint the walls with you. I’m passably cute at best and probably the most straitlaced girl you know, so what made you kiss me . . . or plan this day and dinner?”
“First of all, you are a beautiful woman, so cut the passably cute crap.” Her expression suggested that she didn’t believe him. He thought for a moment, searching for the words to describe how she made him feel. “I can be myself with you—the good and the bad. I don’t think I realized how rare that was until I spent time alone with you. Now it’s as important as oxygen. And when you say you believe in me, I trust you because you aren’t expecting anything in return.” He shrugged. “You make me feel grounded and free at the same time, if that makes sense.”
She stared at him with a soft expression in those wide eyes. “I didn’t expect that answer.”
He’d reached his limit of intimate conversation, so he shrugged and changed the subject. “Let’s see if we can bump up the reservation to an earlier time.”
She nodded without pressing him into a deeper discussion about that kiss or his intentions.
Dinner passed in a pleasant ninety minutes once they’d climbed the stairs to the Chanler at Cliff Walk, the boutique hotel in which the restaurant was situated. His father probably hoped to refurbish the soon-to-be-acquired chain of coastal boutique inns in this fashion—romantic, elegant, upscale.
